Hairline Fracture
by Grasshopper Jungle
Summary: 'She wants a coat made of my leather, and my fur, and my nails.' YinxYuck, but with a twist!


_AU:_ Yin became the Night Mistress at the end of Gone-A-Fowl, but that's not the only thing that's changed…

 _Pairing:_ Eve/Oliver (Evil Goth Yin/Goody Two-Shoes Yuck, if you aren't aware)

 _Inspiration:_ 'My Leather, My Fur, My Nails' by Stepdad

 _Warnings:_ Dubious Consent (to a semi-heavy make-out, not to any sex acts), self-harm by proxy, physical abuse

 _Dedicated to Apples of Avalon. Seriously, she's a great writer and a great friend. Go check her out!_

* * *

"You're my whole world, Yin."

Pen stops mid-scratch. "You're cute too." He hadn't expected her to say anything- Eve can tell by the way the dozen Olivers in her mirror blush before hiding their faces away. The stellate cracks in her vanity seem to surround her in a choir of angels, ones nearly swallowed up by the mountains of black, lace-trimmed pillows and two-ni-corn plush.

 _Well, given what the Bible says angels look like_ , she writes _, I guess I'm the real angel here._

But if Oliver's ever taken issue with the mask of black fire over her eyes, he's kept it to himself. What else is new?

Oliver rolls over, propping himself up on a particularly thick pillow before resting his cheek against his white cast. If the movement had hurt at all, he doesn't show – again, what else is new? Matter of fact, his crying had actually stopped when she'd snapped his arm cleanly in two.

 _I know what you're thinking, but listen, he'd_ _asked me to do it._

As if on cue, Oliver gives a small, content sigh and says, "Thanks again." See?

(Thanks for what? Enabling your self-harm? Sure, any time?)

"No problem." Pen scratching into a tiny, pink book. Oliver starts when Eve slams the book shut, but she doesn't notice.

She had pushed him to the floor the first time he'd started sobbing like that, holding onto her so tightly she was sure her organs had been bruised. But untangling their limbs had only set him off worse, screams choked with hiccups as he'd clawed for her, leaving needle-thin scars along her legs - only the words "off" and "path" comprehensible to her, but that had been enough. He was talking like _that_ again, relapsing into those stilted phrases straight from an alien's guide to teen speak. She'd punched him so hard he'd been embedded in the wall, finally silent as he fell again to the floor, sans some hiccups that shook his frame so hard they knocked off the chips of drywall.

"Better?" she'd asked, her voice softer, yet much older. When she'd offered him a hand up, her body felt vaguely electric, diluted static in her veins. Her pale fur against his aquamarine, her studded bracelets jingling as he entwined their fingers – her eyes seemed to slip off the scene, as though it were some optical illusion.

He'd smiled as though she'd told him they were going to the street fair.

This time, she'd heard a few 'pleaseplease just break something's thrown into the mix, enough for her to be absolutely sure she'd understood him.

The rest was easy. Surprisingly so. He'd hugged her, too, as best he could.

He cocks his head up as she plops down beside him, stretching her arms out before falling back with a dead _thud_. "Does it hurt?" she asks, letting her fingers wander into his silky hair.

"Not too much," he murmurs.

She rolls her shoulders, feeling three vertebrae crack before she sinks back into the bed. "Ever wonder what he'd think of you?"

He pauses, then lets out a soft chuckle. "Reading your diary again?"

Eve momentarily tightens her grip on his fur, almost ripping some out. "I was so…" Rolls her wrists around at the absence of words. _"Pathetic."_ Lax again.

"I don't think about it a lot, honestly," is his reply, staring over her at the dozens of them trapped in that cracked glass. "I'm glad he's gone."

"Speak for yourself. If I hear him stomping around at midnight one more time, I'm gonna just hack his legs off." She tugs on his fur, just enough for him to look up and meet her eyes. "Don't get any ideas."

He returns her smile. "I'll try."

She'd never understood the appeal of her old self to his before they met.

And she can't help herself – she yanks him up by that handful of hair, pretending she'd elicited a hiss she can quickly stifle with her lips.

It's better than the first time- timid to frozen in the span of three seconds, eyes wide and glassy when she'd finally opened her own. But the smoke off his new body hadn't yet dissipated, so she doesn't blame him for that.

Oliver obediently lets his mouth fall open as he tries to twist his body around, another pale hand on his cheek, holding his head in place. Oliver gives a faint grimace as he bares all his weight on his broken arm, swinging his legs over hers. Pressing himself against her side as Eve deepens the kiss, her arms slithering around his neck. A short break; "Oh, Yin," he purrs.

Eve shoves him onto his back. Those pumpkin eyes widen as she straddles him, their chests flush together as she crashes her lips down on his again, quickly moving on to his jawline, his neck. Sinking her teeth into his flesh, earning only a whimper.

He circles her waist with his arms, cast a dead weight on her thigh. Oliver sighs as she bites him again, harder. A small hum when she wiggles her hand under his shirt, raking her nails down his side. Another as she rolls her hips against his.

God, if she didn't know better she'd be tempted to break his other arm.

"Are you even having fun?" she snaps as she pushes herself up, a thin rivulet of blood running down her chin.

Glassy, half-lidded eyes stare at and through her. "I'm sorry."

"That's not an answer."

A blink. Oliver's fingers absently climb up to the weeping puncture marks in his shoulder, lazy circles. "Of course I'm having fun, Yin."

Yin. A name that's nothing but a reminder of a black-clad chicken, public humiliation, and the ex-boyfriend currently Bertha Mason-ing in the attic of the Night Master's castle, yet Eve still can't decide whether she hates it. Not quite.

She grabs both of his wrists and boxes in his head. "Then act like it." She doesn't let him get out another "I'm sorry." When she rolls her hips again, his raise to meet her. Let the hand on his cast relax, slide down the sandpaper skin. She'd signed _Get Well Soon_ across a few inches the day he'd gotten it, the only embellishment on its blank canvas. Eve wonders if she should add something new as his free hand comes to rest on her thigh, well below the hem of her skirt. A sudden shift in her hips forces it upwards, making his breath hitch.

Yes, it's too sad to leave it so empty. He deserves that much. But what to put?

Eve feels her stomach knot when his tongue slides up to meet her own. No, not even - sliding up to barely touch her lips, timidly asking permission, and for some strange reason she feels the urge to cry roll up her face as wave of pain. She balls his collar up in her fists and kisses him so hard she must be bruising them both, kissing the urge away. Oliver replies with only a contented, obedient thrum, deeper in his throat this time.

She knows what she's gonna write now. Big, sprawling, gold-leaf letters:

 _You're my world, too._


End file.
